


Sand Pictures

by FebobeFic_Archivist



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-10
Updated: 2021-02-10
Packaged: 2021-03-16 11:35:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,124
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29331678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FebobeFic_Archivist/pseuds/FebobeFic_Archivist
Summary: A series of vignettes following the War of the Ring and the Ringbearer's return to the Shire: Sam, Rose, and Frodo settle into life together, sharing a loving home overshadowed by Frodo's failing health.
Relationships: Rose Cotton/Sam Gamgee
Kudos: 2





	1. Buying Time

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by "Pretty Good Year" - just a series of vignettes based thereupon, with a debt to Mary Borsellino as the creator of the PGY fanfiction set. Pure angst-filled fluff written for its own sake. It's not intended to have a grand plot; it's not intended to be impressive, serious fanfic. Just a little set inspired by PGY and written episodically for the fun of it and nothing more. Lots of Frodo h/c in these, though, so if you like that, you'll enjoy this.

"Now there, Mr. Frodo. Sssshhh. Just you tell Rosie what's the matter."

Frodo sighed, attempting to steady a breath as he lay still on his side, Rose stroking his curls lightly, as though he were her baby chick. Feeling another wave of dizziness, he closed his eyes, shaking his head weakly. Her cool hand pressed lightly against his forehead.

"There now, if you don't still feel hot to the touch. . .do you think you could drink something for me? Nothing strong, just a bit o'broth that's good for sick folks. . .light on the stomach. . .the kind you like. You need to try and get something down."

He felt a cool cloth against his face. . .damp, smelling faintly of athelas. Bless Sam for teaching her how to prepare it, and bless Strider for sending so much of it. Enough that he could have it whenever he was ill, when it was more than a simple cold or sore throat. . .which was far too often these days. "I could try. Can't promise beyond that. . . ."

"Well, you have to take more than Elly, who's putting you to shame with eating already."

Frodo couldn't help smiling weakly. Only a few months old, Elanor was proving herself a hobbit-child in full despite her nearly elven beauty: when not sleeping, she was constantly eager for food, whether the soft snacks Rose had started her on or Rose's breast milk, still plentiful and all for her. "All right, then. . .I'll try."

"There's a good lad." Her voice soft, half-teasing, but half-worried, she rose, tucking the blankets over him more securely before disappearing into the hall. Frodo sighed, curling up within their warmth, shivering a little.

He loved sleeping with them in the largest feather-bed. Not only was it comfort from the nightmares which tormented him, but they could keep watch in other ways. Rose had woken during the night even before he himself did, applying compresses made with athelas to his feverish brow, tucking an extra blanket around him to ease the chills threatening to wrack his frame. She'd risen to fetch water for him, and later tea, which he'd refused, feeling too ill to drink more than a few sips of clear, cool water. Shortly afterward, Sam woke, so embarrassed at having slept while his Mr. Frodo was ill that Rose had to shoot him a glare that would have withered every plant in the garden to stop his flood of apologies. Not at all upset, Frodo had laughed a little. . .but he was feeling weaker, and had had to lie quietly while Sam propped pillows around his aching limbs, helping Rosie get him into a fresh night-shirt as the first became drenched with icy perspiration.

The warm scent of fresh chicken and herbs filled the room, a light fragrance as Rose bent over him with a mug, slipping her arm beneath his back carefully and lifting him, cradling him against her like an infant.

"There now. Drink up."

He sipped slowly, blinking in the afternoon sun that filtered through the heavy curtains in small rays. On days like this he felt too ill to get out of bed, and was grateful when Rose and Sam let him be, coming in only to care for or lie beside him, to offer what comfort they could.

"Good." Her voice was soothing, and he tried to take a bit more, to please her further. "I'll bring you your supper early this evening if you like."

He paused, shaking his head. "I'm not hungry, Rosie. . .thank you. . . ."

"Nonsense! I won't hear it, Frodo Baggins, just you be clear on that." Her voice softenened a little, as if perhaps she had not intended to sound quite so harsh. "It's just a little cup of mashed sweet potatoes, with bits of ham chopped and stirred in. . .some apple cobbler. . .nice mashed pumpkin. . . ."

Laughing weakly, Frodo sipped a little more of the warm soup. "I think you're feeding *me* the baby's food. No doubt Elly's chewing up mushrooms and sandwiches over there."

"If you'd eat anything else, I couldn't move quick enough to fix it for you." Her eyes darkening, Rose sighed. "You have only to say what you want."

"I know." She was right. He'd not been able to swallow more than soft foods for weeks now: even though he'd been up and about, managing well enough until last night's turn, nothing else would really go down and stay down. His throat felt tight.

"There, there." Rose cradled him, helping him take as much of the soup as he could before setting aside the mug, still holding him close. "You just need some rest and good food. That's all."

He knew it wasn't. He knew in his heart. . .in the ache of his shoulder, the pain at the back of his neck, the weariness in every inch of his frame. It merely bought time, and limited time at that. . . .

But it was something.

And for now, that would be enough.


	2. Another Year

The warm glow of autumn sunset felt at once comforting and unsettling. A reminder. Had it been only a few short years? Sometimes it seemed ages ago. . .and at other moments, only yesterday. . .time flowing like liquid glass in his mind.

It was a fairly good day. One of his first in some time. The bad days came with disturbingly increasing frequency now, consuming entire weeks, sometimes months, with their darkness. He'd been in bed the better part of a fortnight this time, lying staring at the ceiling except when Rose or Sam curled beside him, clasping his hand and kissing him, their light golden and warm in the darkness of the bedroom.

That was how he saw most things on the worst days. . .shades of light and dark, shadows about him. It recalled memories of the desperate journey from Weathertop to Rivendell, and he hated the thoughts that trapped him unbidden.

They did their best to hold back the darkness. Rose fussed over every dish, making puffets in tea-cups and miniature puddings to tempt him into eating, preparing things easy for him to swallow without much effort in chewing. Nothing dry. . .always moist and delicately arranged, with plenty to drink. . .milk or tea with honey, sometimes apple juice, other times plain chilled water or white wine as he wished. Sam helped him from one location to another, giving a supportive shoulder and arm or simply carrying him. . .it was a rare occasion when he would leave the bedroom while feeling unwell, but now and then they would coax him into going outside, wrapped up in warm quilts. . .or to the parlor, where he could lie on the sofa or sit in his arm-chair, feet propped on the over-sized footstool he used to sit upon as a tweenager newly arrived at Bag End. Sometimes he would take Elanor, cradling her against him while she napped. That seemed to keep away the shadows best of all.

Tonight was better, though. They had come outside for a picnic in the garden, Sam spreading a thick layer of blankets on the ground before assisting Frodo, the two followed by Rosie, carrying a picnic-basket on one hip and little Elanor on the other, gladly settling the babe to play next to Frodo while she and Sam set out the meal. Playing pat-a-cake, Frodo had been startled to find himself hungry at the sights laid out before him. He lived mainly on custard, soup, and eggs these days, with the occasional bit of toast or some mushrooms. Thankfully, Rose didn't complain, though she was forever trying to coax him into a bit of regular food. But she never failed to make something he could manage. . .hearty vegetable soup or creamy chicken and mushroom soup, delicate cup custard, egg toast or toast- points with jam and marmalade. But tonight's fare was a bit different. . .sandwiches cut into small triangles: mushroom or chicken or roast beef, and plenty of mushroom and cranberry catsups to spread on them. . .apple turnovers still warm from the oven. . .cream of pumpkin soup with cinnamon, served in mugs. . .a layer-cake covered with frosting. . . .

"Elanor, STOP that!"

Frodo laughed, watching as Elanor again poked her fingers into the frosted cake, swirling the icing around delightedly despite her mother's protests and her father's best efforts to stop her. "It's all right, Rosie, really! I prefer my cake finger-painted. . .makes it taste better."

"Well, I don't prefer her dresses finger-painted, or your shirts, and we all know that's how it'll end up!" Despite her severe tone, Rosie laughed as she retrieved the child. "Well, Master Frodo, another year and you'll have her so spoilt I'll not be able to do a thing with her. She only does this because she knows you'd let her get away with jolly well anything. And don't think you aren't half as bad, though only half!" she added, offering Sam an amused glare.

Another year.

He hadn't the heart to say it, any more than he knew Rose or Sam would have the heart to hear it.

There would be no other year. He was dying.

Arwen's gift. . .perhaps. Part of him wanted to remain here, to take his last breaths with their arms around him, with Sam's dear voice in his ears and Rose's soft scent of ginger and nutmeg close and comforting. Elves were wonderful, but they were not hobbits. Even in Minas Tirith and Rivendell, with the finest healers in the world dedicated to his care, it was Sam who knew how to comfort him best, generally, finding things he could eat when nothing else would stay down, chasing away his nightmares with strong hands rubbing his back. He knew they would make him as comfortable as possible, and stay with him till the very last.

He could see Elanor take her first steps, perhaps.

But then, too. . .something like him. . .dying, full of darkness and shadow, hollow inside. . .something like him belonged elsewhere. He had no right to poison their lives with his fading. There would be other children: did he really want the first of them to spend their earliest days in the shadow of his slow dissolution?

The thought made him feel sick.

He would still die, wherever he went. That much he knew: Arwen had come to his room one night, carried him off to her chambers as if he were a child, laid him between herself and Aragorn in their grand bed and talked to him for hours, speaking of the possibilities. . .how they would care for him should he choose to remain in Minas Tirith, how Elrond would welcome him in Rivendell until he himself sailed West, what little they knew of what would lie ahead should Frodo choose to accept that gift and sail West as well. . .and how they would help him return to the Shire, should he choose. He had chosen the last, and was glad of it, despite all the sorrow he had faced in the return. But Arwen had reminded him that night, as he was about to fall asleep, that he could still sail West if he wished, regardless of where he chose to live. Her gift could not prevent death, no. . .but perhaps it could give him somewhere to find peace and comfort before that time.

He had hoped to have more time to make this decision.

Much more time.

But there was nothing for it. He had already noticed a change. . .as had they. Now he no longer really recovered from the illnesses that troubled him. They were more like a darker point on the same continuum. Even Arwen had suspected something, from afar, with her Firstborn sensitivities: she had written, sending gifts particularly calculated to help comfort an invalid. . .mixtures of herbs for tea and for seasoning soups, specially prepared creams and lotions, special oils like those she had rubbed him down with when caring for him both in Rivendell and Minas Tirith.

He knew it would be like that where he might go. Not Arwen herself, of course. . .but other elves; Elrond and Arwen and Gandalf had taken pains to reassure him that no matter what, he would be cared for in the Blessed Realm. Mortals would still die there, Gandalf said: that was inevitable. But there Frodo could be healed, and would be taken care of until his death, and buried with honour.

The thought was more than he wanted at the moment, and he forced himself to take a sip of tea from the cup Rose had just refilled, adding honey and a touch of milk for him.

Would elves know how to make chicken and mushroom soup?

He'd no doubt they could learn. Probably they had it in a book somewhere already. But would they know how to add just the extra pinch of this and that which Rose always added?

Pillows.

Sam knew just how Frodo liked his, and kept them properly arranged no matter how Frodo tossed and turned. He and Rose never complained, though sometimes Rose would tease a little about sleeping with a restless oliphaunt. Never on his bad days, though. . .when those came, she'd let him sleep as late as he could, then come back in when he woke and creep into bed beside him, putting her arms about him and letting him snuggle into her warmth. Sometimes Sam would slip back in and join them, the three of them curling up in a comfortable tangle of limbs in the middle of the day. And then he would feel warmer, less chilled, sandwiched between them.

Come to that, perhaps there were some things he didn't really *want* the elves to do.

The thought brought a slight smile to his lips, and he saw Sam smile with relief, watching him closely. Rose's smile, though, didn't reach her eyes. She knew what he was thinking about, always knew, with that frightening way ladyhobbits had of always knowing just what one might be thinking. At first he'd thought it was only his mother who'd been that way, but his aunt Dora was like that, as was Sam's mother, both of whom had always seemed to know just what was on his mind.

Sunset faded to gloaming twilight, and Rose handed Elanor to Sam, rising and going to bend over Frodo where he sat close by them on the blanket.

"Time for a good warm bath, I think, and cake inside before bed. I aired out an extra quilt for the bed for tonight, thought we might be wanting it dear enough, cold as the nights are turning."

He knew she and Sam slept with few covers, layering quilts on the bed only because he was always so cold, always needing extra warmth.

"Aye. Let me just take Elly on in, and I'll be back to help." Sam lifted the giggling babe high in his arms, pulling her down for a kiss before rising and heading inside the warm glow of Bag End, leaving Frodo with Rose, who began quietly packing up the picnic-things.

"You know, I think night always comes on too soon." Sighing, she set the cake, still Elanor-finger-swirled, aside carefully. "But there's nothing half so lovely as watching every last bit of light one can get in a day."

Elves certainly wouldn't leave finger-swirls in cake-icing.

The thought made him smile again, somewhat suddenly, though Rose seemed to notice that it didn't go all the way through his eyes.

He might have more time there. If he were healed. . .a normal hobbit lifetime would give him another forty years, or even more. . .perhaps as much as sixty years. More time over again than he'd already lived.

But there was no guarantee of that.

And though Sam could come too, it would not be for many years. And only Sam. No more of Rose's soft singing to Elanor in the mornings, or the smell of her blue-ribbon pumpkin bread baking, or blackberry cobbler bubbling as she took it out of the stove. No more of her way with arching an eyebrow at him and glaring until he had to eat a bite. . .or lie down and rest. . .or whatever she was trying to coerce for his health at the moment. No more of Elanor's burbling smiles as Frodo picked her up. No more pat-a-cake games.

"You don't have to decide the fate of the world tonight, Frodo Baggins, and I don't want you deciding anything right now except what you want with your cake. . .milk or coffee or more tea, but I won't be sitting up with you all night if the coffee keeps you awake."

Involuntarily he laughed, bringing a pretty smile to Rose's face.

"All right, then! A cup of milk, after I've had a little more tea."

"Good." She rose, smoothing her skirts. "I wouldn't want to wake up and find it just Sam and me in our bed tonight."

Neither would I, Frodo mused suddenly. Neither would I.

"You won't. I promise. I'm not going anywhere. . .not tonight."


	3. Bathtime

He'd been in bed for two days now, gazing up at her or Sam with those mournful blue eyes and merely shaking his head in response to questions of how he was feeling or offers to carry him into the parlor to lie on the sofa, tucked up in blankets. When one of them offered a rubdown, he would turn onto his still-hollow belly, allowing them access to his skeleton-thin form. She'd succeeded in coaxing him to eat a bit, to let her feed him small spoonfuls of nourishing soups and broths, sometimes soft-cooked eggs or mashed vegetables. . .but even at that, he ate less in a day or two than most hobbits did in a single meal, and that made her heart hurt. It wasn't her cooking, that she knew. Sam had tried too, and she knew that the two of them were outstanding cooks even by hobbit standards.

But she had an idea.

A package had arrived. There were all sorts of lovely things inside: a soft, cuddly doll for baby Elanor; a special assortment of seeds and small tools for Sam; hair-combs and ribbons for her, and two bolts of fabric softer even than silk. For Frodo there was a soft lamb-skin, large enough to cover the bed, and small packages of dried herbs, including the kingsfoil she'd become so familiar with these past few years. There were a few books as well. . .but also a large, carefully wrapped jar of herb-laced salts for the bath. In the letter addressed to them all, explaining which gifts were for each member of the family, the Queen noted that they were a healing mixture, prepared especially to ease the spirit and body.

It was then that Rose knew just what she'd do.

The kettle put on and a pot of soup set to cooking, she bustled into the bedroom. Frodo lay tangled in the covers, gazing listlessly out of the window. . .yet not looking at his surroundings, a distant stare she'd become all too accustomed to. Quietly she came to the bed, taking a seat beside him, putting an arm about his waist as she spoke softly.

"Frodo-dear, you should see what just arrived. . .soothing bath salts all the way from Gondor, sent by the Queen herself. . .and something nice and soft for your bed; she said it'd be good for you to rest on with your being so thin and all. . . . And herbs for tea: the kettle's on. . . . Come now; Rosie will draw you a nice hot bath, get some warmth into those bones. I'll change the bed while you're in the tub, and then you can lie on clean sheets and that nice lamb-skin, with fresh blankets, and have some soup. . .and tea made with herbs sent 'specially by the King and Queen. . . ."

One fragile hand stirred, the delicate fingers brushing the gemstone on its chain about his neck.

"Queen Arwen. . .and Strider. . .sent them?"

"Aye, that they did, and I suppose they'd be mighty pleased to know you were enjoying those presents instead of letting them sit in a box."

He said nothing, but that in itself was something. He wasn't fighting her, at least, and she chose to take that as a win. Rising, she set about preparing the bath, filling the tub with hot water and adding the recommended amount of the bath mixture. Swishing the water with her hand, she tested it until it was the right temperature, just as she tested Elanor's bath. Then she turned back to the bed.

Frodo had hardly moved, still lying tangled in his covers. As she approached, kneeling to brush back his curls and coax him up so she could help him, he shook his head.

"Rose. . .I'm sorry. I don't think I can. . .not today. I'm sorry. . . ."

"Oh, no, you don't, Master Baggins. You're not about to let me go to all that trouble, all that work, and then lie abed because you're too sorry to get up and walk the few steps to that tub. Now, we'd not have done something so silly as put a bath-tub in the bedroom, but you were that frail, and Sam and I don't want you hurting a bit more than you have to. The least you can do is let me get you out of bed and into that good hot water." The words stung her lips. Poor thing, he looked like next to nothing lying there, weak as a newborn kitten. . .but she forced herself to hold fast. She'd never held with nonsense, and she wasn't about to start now.

Reluctantly Frodo sighed, slipping a slender hand into hers.

"There's a good lad." Gently she slid her other arm behind him, easing him up as she might her baby, finally allowing him to rest against her while she rubbed his back. She could count every rib, and that took her breath. Nonetheless, she managed to smile a little, easing the two of them out of the knot of blankets, taking her hand from his to help him set his legs over the edge of the bed. He faltered as they stood, and she caught his slight weight against her sturdy frame, supporting him.

"I'm sorry - "

"No. . .no, it's all right, sweetheart. There now. Just like we're dancing, see? Step. . .and pause. And step. . .and pause."  
He laughed, but the sound was hollow. Yet it was not without a trace of its music, and Rose breathed easier to hear it. . .especially as he moved with her, complying with her instructions. At last they reached the tub, and she eased him onto the chair beside it, bending to unbutton his night- shirt. He offered no protest, allowing her to undress him before helping him rise once more and step into the waiting bath.

Even in the dim light of late autumn afternoon - and an overcast day at that - he took her breath. Such delicate features, fair and fine as the most expensive porcelain. . .yet at the same time, frighteningly spectral, a haunting mingling of beauty and trapped pain. The small white mark on his left shoulder seemed the worst: he guarded that side fiercely much of the time. There was the scar at the base of his neck. . .the spider's sting, she knew by now.

There was so much of him that she didn't know, though, she felt at times. It was like another person. And yet. . . .

"Rose. . .is there some soap?" He leaned back in the tub, resting his dark curls on the folded towel she'd laid there as a pillow for him.

"Aye. . .let me get it." Catching herself out of the reverie, she took a fresh cake from the basket on a nearby table. Honey and chamomile, just the thing to soothe jangled nerves without clashing with anything in the special bath salts. She dipped it into the water, dampening it before placing it gently into his left hand. "Let me get the bed changed, and I'll help with your hair. . .just say the word if you need me sooner."

"All right." He soaked the wash-cloth in the water, releasing it at last to bob lazily through the water while he bathed. Taking fresh sheets from the closet, Rose set herself to changing the bed, removing sweat-dampened sheets and fluffing the feather mattress and pillows, keeping them still in proper order: Sam's on one end, flat as griddle-cakes from being squashed steadily all night; Frodo's in the middle, never quite flat enough, for he was so light and tossed and turned so often that his head never really made a good dent in the pillows, for all he was near surrounded by them in their efforts to prop his limbs in comfortable positions; her own at his other side, just a bit less squished than Sam's, for there was the getting up with Elanor, not to mention that she made chamomile tea with more success than Sam, and as such was generally the one to get up with Frodo first, Sam waking to comfort him when she went to make the warm drink, mixing it with milk and honey to try and get a little nourishment into him any way she could. The blanket-layers, too, had their tales: Sam's left as the sheet and one quilt-layer over the light blanket, the upper layers folded over to be double covering for Frodo; Frodo's covers not only the sheet and cotton blanket, but several layers of soft blankets topped with two quilts, as if he could never quite get warm enough, even when feverish; again hers, folded back to only the sheet and a light blanket for her - she could never abide over-warmth. Spreading the soft lamb-skin out, she glanced back at the tub to see how he was doing.

In the soft glow of the candle-light and the dim lamps, he seemed to have almost an otherworldly glow. Dark eyelashes rested against his face, brushing the high cheekbones - too thin, she'd have to make certain he got every drop of that soup down - and accentuating the shadows about his eyes. She was relieved to see a bit of tension easing from the alabaster features as he soaked, the scent of fragrant healing herbs still strong in the room. She'd better take advantage of the situation and hurry up a bit. Finishing the bed quickly but carefully, she returned to the tub.

"Ready to let me help with your hair?"

"Mmm." He nodded faintly, reluctantly sitting up a little, allowing her to help him scoot forward a little, sliding further toward the front of the tub so she could pour warm water over his curls. The effort of staying in the semi-reclining position seemed too much for him today, causing her to promptly put out an arm, cradling him carefully.

"There now. Just you rest."

She was soaking her sleeve, but that didn't matter. The warm water seemed to do him so much good, and as she lathered his hair, he sighed contentedly. Pouring fresh water over his locks until that ran clean, she finally guided him back to rest his head upon the folded towel once more.

"Would you like to soak a bit longer, or come back to bed now? Either's fine. You're good and clean, and I don't want you catching a chill."

"Bed's fine. . .thank you, Rose. . .that's a little better now. . . ."

He sounded drowsy. . .and as Rose helped him out, sliding arms heedlessly around his wet body, she could hardly help feeling relieved. He would rest, not merely lie there staring into the darkness like some small ghost. Gently she wrapped him in a freshly warmed towel, again easing him to the chair before taking another and rubbing him dry, even fluffing his heavy curls to reduce their soppiness to mere damp before slipping a fresh night- shirt over his head.

"There now. . .if you don't look a proper gentlehobbit all cleaned up."

Frodo smiled wanly as they ventured their cautious dance back to the bed. "I'd hate to hear what my aunts would have to say about that assessment. . . ."

"Well, you do! Better, at any rate. Now, easy there. . . ." She helped him sit, then lie down, ensuring that his gown was pulled smooth beneath his angular body, settling him on the soft lamb-skin before tucking him in. As much as a part of her still hoped he'd be well again, she knew: knew that no amount of wishing would change anything, and on days like this, the best thing was to get through it the best she could. "I'll go and fetch our lunch, and with any luck, Elly won't want hers till we're done."

But he was already gone again, staring absently in the direction of the window. . .and though he did seem a little more comfortable, it made chills creep down her back.

She hurried to fetch the tray, and sat beside him on the bed, between him and that blasted window, stroking his curls and trying to coax a bite into the bow-shaped mouth. Chicken soup with plenty of vegetables, the special tea sent for him, a bit of cinnamon custard. Yet after a few bites in near- silence, he shook his head.

"Thank you. . .but that's all I could manage just now. . . ."

It was then that she realised.

It couldn't be stopped, that eerie gaze. But distraction. . .that was another story, and perhaps there she could help.

"And you'd let a busy mother slave in the kitchen for two bites of everything? Surely you can do better than that. . .unless you want to come and finish the dishes."

It worked. He smiled faintly, blinking up at her.

"I suppose it's the frying-pan or the fire, then, Rosie-lass? Very well, then! A bit more. I'll. . .I'll try."

She smiled. It might not be the war, but a few battles she could still win. And this one she was beginning to cherish even in its bittersweet stubbornness.

'Some things are worth fighting for,' Frodo had said to her once.

He was right.

Some things were very much worth fighting for.


	4. Blueberry Lemonade

They weren't supposed to grow here.

It made absolutely no sense. None whatsoever.

Even Sam admitted it. That first year he'd scratched his head till Rose fussed that he'd go spot-bald if he didn't stop.

It hadn't been a good day. Frodo remembered that all too well. He had been ill again, too sick to get out of bed for days, then too apathetic to even attempt it. He'd been pondering decisions again, which always left him feeling hollow inside, dark and tight and sick at his stomach.

But then Sam had come in, white as a ghost, while Rose was trying to get her patient to eat some of the green beans and fried taters she'd made, with sweet corn pudding and sliced tomatoes, ripe and red as robin's breasts, strawberries and cream, a lunch fit for the King and Queen themselves, though Frodo had been trying to go back to sleep, and didn't want to see it.

"Mr Frodo - " he'd said in hushed tones, eyes wide. "You - you've got to come outside. There's something I have to show you. . .you won't believe me if you don't see it for yourself, nor Rosie. . .I don't understand it, not one bit, but it's happened."

He had risen reluctantly then, sighing as he sat up, allowing Sam to help him dress quickly in plain breeches - dark caramel - and the blue shirt Rosie handed them to offset the pallor of poor health before letting Rosie run her hands through his tangled mop of curls. Then Sam lifted him and carried him down the long panelled hall of Bag End, Rosie following, making for the outskirts of the Party Field, where Sam had planted rows of trees to replace those felled by ruffians. Most seemed quite ordinary - apple-trees, boasting green fruit on their boughs; plum-trees, heavy with beautiful ripe fruit; cherry-trees, their lovely fruit sparkling in the sun - yet in the centre of the row stood an odd-looking tree indeed. It bore yellow fruit, and smelled of summer and Minas Tirith and hints of flavouring in elvish dishes.

Rosie's mouth dropped open.

"We had pickled limes and lemons once, on my birthday, when a travelling saleshobbit from Bree came, and was sellin' them special. . .Mr. Bilbo bought them for all the children in the neighbourhood that day. And once we got some to make lemonade for one of my brothers, when he'd been real sick."

"We had it from fresh ones, at feasts, for Queen Arwen's wedding," murmured Frodo, still blinking in surprise.

"It just don't make no sense!" muttered Sam, shaking his head. "They had 'em from the South, and offered me lots o'seeds, but we talked about how the Shire just. . .doesn't grow these things real well, not hot enough or something. . .so I didn't take any. But I did take a package the elves made up, of fruit trees from Rivendell, to. . .to remember 'em all by. . .but I'd never have thought. . . ."

"But look at it." To his surprise, Frodo was the first to interrupt. It was like a flash of memory, recalling all of that. . .painful, but pleasant as well.

"The soil ain't right, nor nothin'. . .haven't been waterin' as much as those need. . .but look. . . ." Shaking his head, Sam clambered up the stepladder he had left beside the tree, bringing two lemons down and offering them for Rose's and Frodo's inspection. "Perfect. It's like it was made for here, somehow, but I can't understand how it grows. They wither up and die out."

"Well, perhaps it likes you!" Rosie had teased.

"It must be one of the Lady's blessings," Sam insisted, shaking his head. "She was right special like that, y'know. She'd have known."

They'd made lemonade then, two years ago, when it happened.

And even now, the third summer of its blooming, Sam still muttered over and over that he couldn't understand. . .he was glad as could be, but he couldn't understand it.

Frodo took a long sip from his glass. Rosie had made blueberry lemonade, his favourite, which tasted to him like sunshine and Rivendell and Ithilien and Elanor's tiny smiles and Bilbo's stories and Sam's grins and Rosie's laughter all pressed to juice and squeezed into a drink. Today was a very good day: though weak, as he always was these days, he felt well enough to sit outside, watching Sam fuss with the trees while Elanor played on the grass with her dolls and tiny tea-set, still more interested in keeping her world inviolate than in inviting her family in.

And why not? Let her have it. Let her hold it fast. Such a precious thing.

He nearly choked on another sip, laughing as Elanor tasted a lemon wedge from her dishes, making a decidedly sour little face at the unsweetened taste of it, and promptly returned her attenttion to her own tumbler of blueberry lemonade, which she drank from with both chubby little hands, dribbling a bit down her chin now and then. Rosie was resting for once, eyes closed; they'd brought lunch outside. It was one of the days Frodo found himself with a considerable appetite. . .enough to steal cookies from Rosie's freshly-baked batches on the cooling-racks, and enough to eat every bite of lunch: sandwiches cut into quarters - mushroom, cucumber, watercress, tomato, chicken, hard-boiled egg. . .corn on the cob, dripping with sweet butter. . .whole peaches. . .green beans and new potatoes, fresh from their garden. . .fried chicken. . .fresh rolls and sweet corn muffins. . .lemon jelly. . .blackberry cobbler. . .cherry cobbler. . .fruit salad in glasses, sparkling green and purple grapes and fresh strawberries sliced up and tossed in with blueberries, with a heavy layer of cream on top. He'd finished the sampler Rosie had given him, then asked for more jelly and cobbler and mushroom sandwiches, downing his third glass of blueberry lemonade, making her grin and Elanor giggle.

"I was thinking of vegetable soup later this week. Air smells like rain, and that's the best rainy-day dish I know, even for summer."

Listening to Rosie's sleepy murmur, he nodded, looking back toward the strange tree. "That sounds good. I'll help you cut things up for it. . .safer than my making the cornbread. It wouldn't be burned, but it wouldn't taste right."

"True. You can Elly-sit instead."

Frodo laughed and took another sip from his glass, settling back lazily into his comfortable spot on their picnic-blanket.

'Some things will grow wherever you plant them, if they're meant to grow there,' Sam had said once, when Frodo marvelled at the beauty of the exquisite mallorn tree now filling the centre of the Party Field. 'Don't matter none, I reckon, whether things look right for it. . .they just are, and somehow somethin' can thrive where nothin' should grow at all, by rights, even when the soil looks and feels as dead as the Black Land itself. And those, I reckon, are the most beautiful things a body'll ever see in a lifetime, and better'n we could ever hope. They grow out o'nothing, it seems. . .or everything. Even when they're as out o'place as a mallorn - or a lemon tree - in Hobbiton.'

It shouldn't be true.

It couldn't be.

And yet it was.


	5. Watermelon

Bet I can."

"Bet you can't."

"Just watch!"

Frodo laughed as Elanor, eager to prove her point, spit watermelon seeds intently at the nearest tree, trying her hardest to make them gather distance. . .but alas, most of them fell to the ground rather close by. Taking another bite of his own slice, he shook his head.

"Told you, Elly-elle. Now watch, but don't tell Mummy. She'll have my head if she finds out I'm showing you this."

Elanor made a face, but nodded, watching as Frodo studied the nearest tree, expertly delivering a few seeds in rapid succession, all of which managed to cover more than thrice the distance of Elanor's, which were mostly dribbling down her pinafore. "How?"

"Just be patient with it. . .and don't blow too quickly. Otherwise they go down your chin instead."

She laughed, the music of chimes in the summer air. "Do you know everything, Fro?"

"No. . . ." Shaking his head, he pulled her into his lap, tickling her till she giggled merrily. "No, I know very little at all, Elly-elle. . .except that if I had a memory-box, I would wrap this afternoon up all in red and green and black, and put it in, and keep it forever."

"Me too." She grinned, showing a missing front tooth. "Will you catch fireflies with me tonight?"

"Of course. Race you in to get cleaned up first, though! Mummy will have supper soon, and Dad will be in from doing mayor work. . .and everyone will be ready but us - "

She was inside long before he even reached the start of the walk. . .his pace couldn't have matched hers, even if he could still run. At the door, he paused to look back at the rich spreading glow of the late afternoon sun.

"FRO! Last one in's a rotten egg!"

He smiled. "Coming, Elly-elle!"

Sometimes it was good to be. . .watermelon seeds.

Or bugs.

Or even a rotten egg.


	6. Hope

"There's no reason he should be alive, Samwise Gamgee, and you know it same as I do."

Sam sighed, running thick fingers tensely through tousled sandy curls, looking at her through the same puppy-brown-sad eyes she found alternately endearing and exasperating. "There's lots o'reasons. The Lady - "

"I don't see the Lady here getting him turned in bed or trying to get him to eat. Leave him alone and it would be a matter of time. Some days I think it is anyhow." She stirred the soup with a fierce jerk, causing a drop to splash further up the side. Wincing, Sam leaned against the closed door to the main pantry, watching in silence.

Frodo had taken another of his bad turns. They'd been through it often enough, but this time it seemed to keep getting worse instead of abating, and Rosie was finding herself hard pressed to keep him from fading into a ghost in their own home. He couldn't sit up, even if they propped him on pillows: that made him too dizzy and faint. He couldn't eat half the time, and half of the other half Rosie would be darned if she could figure out what he could get down, because it didn't seem anything she or Sam cooked suited him. The last quarter was the only thing that kept him going, the times when he could actually take spoonfuls of good hot food, cooked proper, and keep that down. And those times were rarer than hen's teeth these days.

The children were with Merry and 'Stell, being thoroughly indulged. . .more than she'd have liked, but there was nothing for it. All save Elly, who already carried an odd sense of the whole business. Though all of thirteen, she could be an odd little lass, but lately she'd taken to trying to help out, and insisted on staying. It was she who was sitting with him just now, talking quietly to her "Fo" in an effort to calm him. She had been the one to reassure the younger children while her mother kissed them good-bye, promising that it was just for a few days.

For a long time Rose had wondered. Years of suspecting. And still she didn't have proof. But she had a feeling about it, the sort of feeling she got when she first felt a babe inside her. . .the sort of feeling you just know, whether anyone can prove it on paper or no.

"What that Lady did that was so special is something we can do more than a bit of, and something you've done, and something Elly does. It may not look as grand when we do it, but I'll warrant it's not a bit less strong for that."

Sam gave her a quizzical look, brown eyes befuddled. "What's that?"

Pausing, Rose set the spoon aside and put her hands on her hips, studying him.

They had all grown older. Not that they were old yet, by any means, but they had aged. There were touches of silver in Frodo's raven curls already, and Sam carried more of a mayoral look these days. And yet there were things that hadn't changed. . .the same things she'd loved seeing when she and Sam first married. When Elly was born. When Sam became mayor for the first time.

"For all you're so fond of telling me about how you used to think of me, Sam, I'm surprised you can't remember." She found herself unable to hold the scowl, and yielded to smiling a little, shaking her head. "When you used to think of getting back, and of seeing me again, and my brothers and all. . . ."

The sound of Elanor's soft singing drifted from the main bedroom, a not-entirely-hobbitlike melody.

"There's something holds him together. And that's hope. Hope that things will get better. That we'll have more good times. That Elly will finish growing up and have the finest wedding since that one you go on about, King Elessar's or what have you. . . ."

Sam smiled wanly. "Hope ain't everything, Rosie. It can only go so far."

"Far enough." She gestured toward the hall, where Elanor's voice continued in strange melody, some old half-forgotten song her Fo had taught her on some long-ago rainy afternoon. "I think hope's one of the finest things there is."


	7. Freezing

June 1437

"Where's Fo?"

Mum shook her head sadly, putting out a steadying arm, and her eyes were too red. She didn't have the bottle of cod-liver oil in her apron-pocket, and that made Elanor's breath catch and her stomach go all funny.

"In the bedroom. He's been wanting to see you. He'd planned to ride out and meet you, but - "

She didn't hear the rest, fairly flying down the hall, curls flying as her hair came loose. She didn't care. All those letters. . .a whole year of letters from Fo, keeping her heart up when she felt so afraid, so alone in places so full of such big people, so far from home and messy little brothers and sisters and Daddy and Mum and Fo. . . .

And now she knew.

Knew as much as a body could know, at least. Hours with King Elessar and Queen Arwen, hearing about Arwen's Ada, as she called her Daddy, who'd sailed away over the sea when Elanor was just a baby, before the others were even born.

The one Fo would have sailed away with. . .but he stayed.

She'd thought Fo had taught her more history than she could bear to remember, and come to find he'd left more out of it than she could imagine.

You might know how cold it is outside, King Elessar had pointed out, and you might tell your children how cold it is, but you don't tell them that you're freezing to death.

Because you don't want to hurt them.

She stopped at the door, swallowing, trying to regain her breath to avoid startling him by hurtling in. When he was ill, anything that startled him hurt him, and sometimes it would take him an extra dose of medicine or Mum and Daddy rubbing his hands over and over and talking to him before he'd be all right enough for his breathing to slow back to its usual laboured pace. She didn't want to make him worse, not after so long. . . .


	8. Summer

From the door-frame, though, she could see him clearly: raised just a little bit on pillows, his head raised only enough to ease drinking and breathing. They couldn't keep him propped up too much; his heart was tired, she'd learned from Queen Arwen and Lady Eowyn. Even though her duties had been to the Queen, wherever they were, they'd found a fair bit of time to teach her things, just as Fo had taught her in preparation for her year with them. Slowly she ventured closer.

He was breathing such short little breaths. . .not so many of them, just. . .short little difficult breaths, the way he sometimes did when he wasn't well. He looked even whiter than usual, all pale and damp and feverish, like he might faint if you even tried to move him just a quarter of an inch. The room smelled heavily of the familiar athelas (galenas, kingsfoil, "that funny leaf" - as the younger ones called it), hot and steamy with extra wood on the fire and steam-kettles and basins everywhere. Fo was tucked in beneath the fluffy counterpane and a whole pile of patchwork quilts, but still he shivered, trembling as if he were buried in snow instead.

Strider.

She now understood the meaning of the strange name he sometimes called out, the name besides her father's, the one she'd heard only in stories. Oh, she'd thought she understood it. . .but now she found she hadn't at all, and she swallowed tensely, remembering the place they'd visited while staying at Evendim, near where Queen Arwen's brothers still lived.

Slowly she put out one hand, wringing out a fresh cloth from the stack on the bedside table, bringing her other hand to help as she shook off the drips and laid it over his forehead. His face felt burning hot to her hands. . .except the left side, which was cold as ice. The compress was nice and warm, at least.

"Elly-elle. . .there you are. . . ."

His eyes slowly opening, blue as ever, Fo looked up at her, his voice worn and tired as cracked leather. She smiled, taking another cloth and kissing his thin cheek before stroking his neck lightly with the other compress, and he fairly beamed, the corners of his pallid lips turning up in that little bow they became when he smiled.

"I'm sorry. . .I should. . . ."

"Sssshhh. . .it's all right, Fo."

Tears sparkled in his eyes, blue as the Sea. "I. . .wanted to. . .to come and. . .meet. . .you properly. . . . A few. . .more. . .days. . .and I. . .would have. . .been. . .able. . . ."

"A few more days would have been too long for me to wait. Winter's cold, and it's time for Summer to come melt away all the snow."

Reaching to her left wrist, she pulled loose the bow of a single purple ribbon tied about another, one bound to her wrist in decorative fashion. Slowly she lifted the covers, trying not to jostle the frozen left arm., so chilled in contrast to the fever that burned away at the rest of him, even though he shivered. . .he was always so cold. . . .

With careful touch, she tied the purple ribbon gently about his wrist, her voice a whisper.

"Summer's come home, Uncle Fo. Summer always comes back."


End file.
